He was a wanted man. Dangerous, deadly, and tired of running.

It was half past noon when Keith finally stirred from his fitful slumber. He rose quickly and stretched, still stiff from the night spent on the forest floor. After dislodging a couple of leaves from his unkempt hair, he rummaged through his bag until he found the thing he wanted: a paper with a picture, a name, and a class schedule of his last target. He brushed off his clothes and, shouldering his small pack, he set out southbound back towards the highway, sure that at the midday hour he could find someone willing to take his money for a lift down the road.

A short while later he stumbled out into the open stretch of parking lot designated for truckers. Setting up shop at a bench out front of the building, he dropped his bag at his feet and began pawing for the tattered pack of smokes he’d bought a few days earlier from the mini-store inside. He pulled out his last match and struck it, watching with a groan as it quickly flared and blew out in the wake of a passerby.

Sweeping his eyes about, he caught sight of a man nearby. Early twenties, slicked back hair, Ray-Bans, Greek letters on his shirt, taking a long drag off a newly lit cigarette. Keith knew a good mark when he saw one.

“Lil’ help?” he inquired, casting his free hand toward the unlit stick poking between his fingers.

“Yah, sure thing,” came the quick reply as the kid held out his silver Zippo. He took it and lit his cigarette, taking a long drag himself to revitalize his senses. Thanking him as he handed it back, he noticed the kid sizing him up in the same fashion he had.

“No problem. So what’s with the bag?”

Keith made up some spiel about being a wayward traveler, hitchhiking back to Cleveland. The kid was headed back to Buffalo as it turned out, and after some negotiating, he managed to secure a ride for seven bucks.

About an hour later they passed through the toll-barrier. The kid merged off and dropped him at a gas station just outside of campus. Perfect, he thought, as he crossed the busy intersection and made his way to the string of buildings ahead.

Chris walked out of class and made for the stairs. Ah, Friday. Time to head home, smoke a blunt, and start getting wasted. Blending right in with the rush of students eager to do the same, he headed down the stairs and outside, making straight for the parking lot. He was looking forward to this weekend to unwind. Two of his friends had died last weekend in a freak boating accident, and this weekend was going to be a hell of a party in their honor. Surely that’s what they would’ve wanted. Halfway to his car, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned and staring back at him was Keith Dryden.

“Stay quiet and make for your car. Act natural.”

Keith Dryden had been his calc TA three years ago, shortly after which he had disappeared from campus. There were rumors that he’d had it with college and with teaching and had gone off the deep end. They hastened towards his car, through the lot filled with vultures trying to score parking spaces off the fleeing droves from the academic complexes. He fumbled with his keys nervously as he tried to open the passenger door. Keith tossed his pack in the back seat and waited for Chris to get in before doing so himself.

“Now make for the 90; head west,” Keith barked at him. In his hand, Chris could see he now fingered the trigger of a pistol.

They drove for what seemed like hours in silence while his mind wrestled with the situation at hand. Was Keith still holding a grudge? Perhaps his position as Chris’ ex-TA had something to do with it. But why did he pick him, and where were they going, and what was he planning to do with that gun? These queries filled his mind as they drove down the highway. Finally, his gas light sprang to life and they turned into the next service area. They parked in back, in the cover of shadow.

They got out and his captor ushered him in the direction of a stand of trees beyond the parking area. An ominous feeling overwhelmed Chris as he trudged forward, being intermittently prodded by the barrel of Keith’s .44 caliber hand-cannon. Finally they stopped inside the cover of the trees and Chris turned around. In the pale moonlight, Keith’s eyes carried an eerie glow as his mouth held a half smirk, giving him a deranged, though freakishly calm look. Keith brandished his gun in a motion clearly meant for Chris to sit down. He obliged the pistol.

“You and your friends were always fuckups in my class,” started Keith. Chris and his buddies had always slacked off in Keith’s class, as freshmen often do, and as a result none of them got higher than a C. “After the dean got the grade reports, he fired me. Because of you douche bags, I had to leave. Without the TA paycheck, there was no way I could pay for classes,” he continued, his face contorting with every word to illustrate the sincerity of his anger. “I got your friends last week, now there’s just you.”

Chris was bewildered. In the course of a few hours, his last day of the week had turned into the last of his life. There’d be no getting fucked up now, just fucked. This was one hell of a time to be sober. Keith aimed the gun down at Chris as he desperately moved to kick the gun from his hand. They both scrambled, leaping at the dislodged weapon as it glided through the air separating them, landing a few feet away. A resounding boom echoed through the trees seconds later as the firearm let loose its death blow. The bullet caught him square between the eyes.

“Fucking punk,” he muttered as he checked his pockets for his keys and wallet. He lurked in the shadows a while, waiting until traffic seemed to lighten up before heading back to the car. After stopping briefly to fill the tank and buy a lighter, he lit up a cigarette, taking in a deep drag to soothe his nerves. Killing was a stressful business, after all. Punching the car into gear, he headed back out to the highway.

He was a wanted man. Dangerous, deadly, and tired of running.